Absolution
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: Clemency for his previous mistakes has been a long time coming. And despite all that he's accomplished during his six years aboard Voyager, it's an absolution that only he himself could grant.


**Author's Note:**

_I'm not normally one for long prefaces to stories, but this one requires it, as it is a love note (albeit it a fittingly dark one, coming from me) to two fellow authors whose support and correspondences have meant the world to me. _

_To the J/C'er whose subtly with words has inspired me: the stirring passion you have always assigned to Janeway and Chakotay has finally converted me, even if only this to the P/T'er who's endowed Tom Paris with a grace that I've never managed to duplicate: thank you for loyally reading my endeavors, despite that I've ripped Tom, each and every time, from B'Elanna's arms. I would ask that you forgive this tenth, painful parting. But I already know that you will. No matter what, you always do._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Absolution<strong>_

Standing beside the force field that separates herself and Tom Paris, Kathryn Janeway seethes with anger.

Anger that Tom has made a serious choice impetuously.

Anger that he has done something that will deprive her ship of its best pilot.

Anger that he has committed himself to a course that will affect those he loves.

But below all that anger, which she knows to be largely irrational, she feels pride; respect for what he's done.

And beneath even that, looms fear; complete terror, really, that she cannot protect her officer from the consequences he's chosen.

"We're going to get you out of here, Tom."

He can't count the number of times he's heard his Captain make promises like this. And almost always, he's believed them, too. The few times that he hasn't, he's at least pretended he did, for the benefit of the crew around them. Even for the Captain herself.

This time, he only looks at her with a soft expression, as though he's forgiving her in advance for the lie.

He has been in Caprolian custody for only a few hours, but so far their government officials, as well as their holding facilities, have proven humane. The Caprolians appear to care genuinely about justice, as well as the rights of the accused.

The one little quirk of their legal system, aside from the continued and expedient use of capital punishment, is the stark seriousness with which they treat the violations of consecrated graves. The very boundary that Tom Paris now stands accused of running afoul of.

Looking at his Captain, Paris feels suddenly grateful that the planet's authorities have not allowed anyone else from his ship to beam down once proceedings against him began. At first, he'd wanted to see B'Elanna. Harry, too. But now, he's relieved that the last time B'Elanna sees him won't be in a holding cell on an alien planet. Content, however selfishly, that the last time he saw his lover was before he went down to the planet for shore leave, when he rolled off the bed they'd shared in his quarters. The dark eyes that looked back at him being filled with laughter and freshly sated desire, rather than silent torment.

He feels only slightly guilty that the woman beside him is the one who has to watch him now. He knows it pains her, too, of course. More profoundly than she will ever articulate, most likely. But still, it is a pain that he knows she can shoulder.

A wound that will join the many others scars that she has accumulated since their voyage in the Delta Quadrant began.

"I know you'll try your best, Captain." He doesn't voice the thesis that her best won't be good enough this time. Instead, it remains a silent assumption that hangs between them, like the charge of the containment field.

As the three days of appeals tick by, even the Captain's hope evaporates.

It would be easy to vacate Tom's confession, to prove that he is innocent of the charges. But doing so would require the revelation that it was not Tom but another member of her crew who disturbed the Caprolian tomb. And as much as the Captain wants to free him, she will not swap one life for another.

She cannot bring herself, however much it pains her, to betray that self-sacrifice that her pilot has so willingly offered.

Looking back, she can still clearly picture the look on Icheb's face when he touched the carved burial stone with innocent reverence; the complete awe at its ornateness shifting to surprise when the ominous claxon began to blare.

She can still see, too, the stoic face Tom had worn when he quickly and deftly pushed the young man to the side, casually taking his place beside burial stone, as though they were standing around a pool table in Sandrine's and Icheb was blocking his shot.

It's the same stoic face that Tom wears presently, on the morning that his appeal period expires.

Tom has been remarkably unguarded, alone with his Captain these last few days. She has watched his sadness that he will not ever be able see the ones he loves again, his pain that his commanding officer has to bear witness to this, and even his regret he will never make it back to Earth, finally looking his father in the eye as an equal.

Yet, never among the emotions that play out is fear for himself, and she can't help but feel surprised.

"You aren't afraid of this." It isn't so much a question as a statement, and before he answers her, he turns his face into the light that shines into his holding cell.

Like almost all of the Caprolian architecture, the holding facility takes advantage of the planet's temperate climate. Both sides of the building are open, exposed to the bright sun and cool breeze. The light barely finds one corner of Tom's small cell, which is located at one end of the elongated building, and it's in this corner that he stands, contemplating his Captain's question.

"Not really," he says, letting go of a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure there isn't actually a Hell." He looks at her briefly, before shutting his eyes and tilting his head back into the light. "And even if there is, I'm certain that I'm not going."

His words give his companion some measure of comfort. Clemency for his previous mistakes has been a long time coming, and despite all that he's accomplished during his six years aboard _Voyager_, it's an absolution that only he himself could grant.

His last hour moves by slowly, and they both wait in silence for the guards to come.

He has already dictated to her his messages for those back on the ship, as well as those far away, on Earth. He has communicated his thankfulness to her for saving him from Auckland, and silenced her obvious guilt that, given all of this, she doesn't think she's done him any favors.

There is nothing left to do for either of them but wait. And as unsettled as the Captain is by the observation, it seems to be something that's much more painful for her than her Lieutenant.

"You were supposed to be the at helm when we dock at McKinley Station. I was supposed to look over your smiling face to see Earth on Voyager's viewscreen." The statement is melancholy and more selfish than she should ever allow, but sitting in front of the officer - the friend - she will soon lose, she can't seem to stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth.

"I know," he responds solemnly. "And I'm sorry."

The apology is comical. Even absurd. But looking at each other through the force field, it doesn't occur to either of them that it's inappropriate.

"You have to promise me you won't let B'Elanna wallow," he says abruptly, when they hear the guards approaching from the far end of the building's long corridor. "Harry will try, Kahless help him, but his patience is no match for her temper."

"I won't," she promises.

No matter what comes, she knows she will drag her engineer out of her depression and her solitude. She will endure B'Elanna's temper and shouted curses, forcing her to confront Tom's absence; making the younger woman deal with the loss the whole ship shares but the two of them uniquely shoulder, albeit in different ways.

He hesitates, his face once more finding the rays of sunshine in the small space around him, and she thinks that perhaps he might finally cry.

Instead, he looks at her evenly, his expression still devoid of any pain.

"And please be good to Chakotay. . . He still loves you, you know. Despite everything you two have done to put a safe distance there.."

Staring back at him, she finds herself hopelessly torn between the surprise at her inner-most emotions being laid bare and the awe that that this man, even in his last moments, thinks to guard her personal well-being.

When the guards drop the containment field, waiting to lead Tom down the last corridor he will ever walk, he turns to her one final time and smiles.

"It's been a privilege, Kathryn."

One year later, when _Voyager_ pulls into Jupiter Station after seven years of constant struggle, she will think of Tom's face at this moment. She will picture his smile and shining blue eyes in the seat that Pablo Baytart will occupy.

And before that, hours after she returns from the Caprolian prison, she will blindly stumble through her ship's corridors, holding back choked sobs until she crosses the threshold of her First Officer's quarters. Entering, finally, into the embrace that has waited for her for four years too the offered love that may be robbed from her tomorrow. The love that has been robbed already from B'Elanna Torres, who will be wracked with tears, five decks down, in Harry's quarters. The young woman's body failing to contain the grief and shattering screams that Kim's eyes, patient behind their veil of tears, have never before seen.

But here, now, Kathryn Janeway will not meet Tom Paris' grace with anything but mirrored strength. She will not cry. She will not even appear grieved.

"One that was all mine, Tom."

And as she speaks, she forces a smile.

After he turns from her, she watches as he begins his long walk down the darkness that stretches out before him, moving with certainty toward the light that shines beyond.


End file.
